The Wild Rose Press

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

An Irish Ghost Hunt

As the release of The Cauldron Stirred approaches, I’d like to share one
of my favorite memories from the first time I visited Ireland. I was
eighteen at the time. It was my first trip overseas with my parents and
the perfect opportunity to meet our Irish cousins, who welcomed us with
open arms. The parents were a little older than mine; their five
children, about my age. They lived near Kilkenny, and while their
current home was modern, their old residence still stood on the
property. When I say old, I mean centuries old! My great-grandfather,
Michael, had lived in the house before coming to America, and now his
progeny explored the abandoned rooms.

History was alive there,
in the people as well as the structure. My cousins spoke of Oliver
Cromwell as though he’d invaded Ireland three weeks (instead of three
centuries) before. I soaked it all up and was eager to learn more about
the history of the area.

On the second day of our visit, my
parents and I set out alone for some sightseeing. We’d driven only a
short distance when we noticed a castellated manor house set back from
the road in beautifully landscaped, walled grounds. Ever the intrepid
photographer, my dad was determined to get a picture of the place. A
view from the street marred by iron gates wasn’t good enough, so he
found a side road and parked the car. He marched onto the grounds, and
my mom and I trailed behind.

I love my dad, but there are
moments when he seems to channel Clark Griswold, Chevy Chase’s character
in the Vacation movies. This was one of those moments.

He made
his way to the front lawn and paused. Then he lifted the camera and
seemed poised to capture the perfect snapshot of the manor’s façade.
All at once, two Dobermans tore around the side of the house. Snarling
like the hounds of hell, they raced toward him. Dad flinched and
assumed a deer-in-the-headlights look, then spun on his heel.

An
abrupt command rang out and stopped the dogs in their tracks. The
homeowner, who strolled around the corner, appeared to be in her early
sixties. With inborn grace, she approached my dad as Mom and I reached
the scene.

Apologies ensued and in the end, the woman invited us
to tour her home. It was originally a medieval manor house but had
been rebuilt in 1708. Decorated with antiques, the structure oozed
history. We admired its elegance, but its owner struck us even more.
She was amiable as could be and deft at handling the large ring of
tinkling keys she housed in her pocket. Handle them she did, for all
rooms had to be unlocked before we could enter, which seemed a little
strange. A lot stranger was the fact that she locked the door behind us
every time we crossed the threshold, both into and out of each room.

Of all the rooms, one stood out. Family portraits—paintings and
photographs—covered the walls and adorned every piece of furniture with a
flat top. At first, the owner favored us with stories of her
ancestors. Then she indicated a black and white, circa 1950s picture of
her deceased sister on the nearest table. In both hairstyle and dress,
the sister reminded us of Jackie Kennedy. I made a mental note of the
photo before the sound of jingling keys foretold our imminent exit.

At the end of the tour, we expressed our humble gratitude and returned
to our cousins’ company. They were excited by our recent adventure and
divulged that no one except the owner had been in that house for years.
The property had a mysterious past shadowed by ghosts, fairies, and
murder.

Was there a better place to investigate the paranormal?
In our opinion, no. Were we up for the challenge? Hell yeah. Just
before midnight, the lot of us set out in two cars for the manor’s
extensive grounds. We had no intention of trespassing; this time, we
would stick to the road.

Absent any street lights, the said road
and its environs were only visible by the grace of the moon’s glow. I
was just commenting on the fact when a peculiar sight stopped me in
mid-sentence. Outside the car, to our left, a woman in full riding gear
(high boots, tan pants, black coat and hat) urged her horse onward.

One of my cousins twisted in his seat. “Why is she out ridin’ in the middle of the night?”

No one had an answer, so we kept driving. Farther down the road, we
spotted the woman again. This time, she was on foot, walking her horse
in the field.

We continued on, but as we rounded another bend,
my cousin made an odd, strangled sound. “There’s no sense to it. How
did she get there so fast?”

I shrugged, then frowned as a new thought struck me. “Isn’t it dangerous to ride in the dark?”

“It isn’t right,” another cousin said. “How could she be here one minute and there the next?”

Nonplussed, we peered down the road, seeking a distant outline of both horse and rider, for we’d all seen the same thing.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

We whirled around and there, not five feet away, was the woman. The horse was nowhere in sight.

Our senses reeled. Her presence seemed impossible, yet there she was.

Perhaps it was nerves, or the absurdity of the situation, but my dad blurted out the bald truth. “We’re looking for ghosts.”

She regarded him for a long moment. “They say you can spot them sometimes at night.”

I cleared my throat. “Have you seen any?”

The hint of a smile touched her lips. “No. But you never can tell.”

My parents, cousins, and I exchanged glances and awkward giggles. Then we turned back to the woman.

She had vanished. Her entrance and exit were as silent and preternatural as the grave.

Back at my cousins’ house, we gathered around the large kitchen table
and nursed mugs of hot tea between our chilled hands. Only then did my
parents and I recall the manor’s portrait room and the owner’s
remembrance of a beloved sister…a sister she had lost.

Our agreement was instantaneous. The midnight rider looked exactly like the woman in the picture.

When it came time to write The Cauldron Stirred, the first book in my
Guardians of Erin series, I knew there had to be at least one ghost
hunt. There are three! I hope you’ll join the Donoghue family in
Ireland and follow their adventures, in this world and the Otherworld.